“Thanks, Jack,” said Colonel Pedlar.
He studied the paper, gazing at it with that earnest, apparently uncomprehending stare, of which Widmerpool had more than once complained.
“I’ve seen this,” he said. “Seems all right, Derrick. Take it back where it belongs, Jack.”
“Glad it seems all right to you, Eric,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “because I rather flatter myself the operational staff, under my guidance, did a neat job.”
The bite in his tone should have conveyed warning. He terminated this comment, as was his habit, by giving a smirk, somehow audibly extruded from the left-hand side of his mouth, a kind of hiss, intended to underline the aptness or wit of his words. Unless in a bad humour he would always give vent to this muted sound after speaking. The fact was Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson did not attempt to conceal his own sense of superiority over a brother officer, inferior not only in appointment, regiment and mental equipment, but also in a field where Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson felt himself particularly to shine, that is to say in the arena where men of the world sparklingly perform. The play of his wit was often directed against the more leisurely intellect of Colonel Pedlar, whose efforts to keep up with all this parade of brilliance occasionally landed him in disaster. It was so on that night. After giving a glance at the situation report, he handed it back to Cocksidge, who received the document with bent head, as if at Communion or in the act of being entrusted with a relic of supreme holiness. There could be no doubt that the sit-rep had at least confirmed Colonel Pedlar in the belief that nothing remained to worry about where the exercise was concerned. At such moments as this one he was inclined to overreach himself.
“Going to finish up with a glass of port to-night, Derrick,” he asked, “now that our exertions are almost at an end?”
“Port, Eric?”
A wealth of meaning attached to the tone given by Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson to the name of the wine. Widmerpool’s mother, years before, had pronounced “port” with a similar interrogative inflexion in her voice, though probably to imply her guests were lucky to get any port at all, rather than for the reasons impelling Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson so precisely to enunciate the word.
“Yes, Derrick?”
“Not to-night, Eric. Port don’t do the liver any good. Not the sort of port we have in this Mess anyway. I shall steer clear of port myself, Eric, and I should advise you to do the same.”
“You do?”
“I do, Eric.”
“Well, I think I’ll have a small glass nevertheless, Derrick. I’m sorry you won’t be accompanying me.”
Colonel Pedlar gave the necessary order. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson shook his head in disapproval. He was known to favour economy; it was said, even to the extent of parsimony. A glass of port was brought to the table. Colonel Pedlar, looking like an advertisement for some well-known brand of the wine in question, held the glass to the lamp-light, turning the rim in his hand.
“Fellow in my regiment was telling me just before the war that his grandfather laid down a pipe of port for him to inherit on his twenty-first birthday,” he remarked.
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson grunted. He did this in a manner to imply observation of that particular custom, even the social necessity of such a provision, was too well accepted in decent society for any casual commendation of the act to be required; though the tradition might be comparatively unfamiliar in what he was accustomed to describe as “Heavy” infantry; and, it might be added, not much of a regiment at that.
“Twelve dozen bottles,” said Colonel Pedlar dreamily. “Pretty good cellar for a lad when he comes of age.”
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson suddenly showed attention. He began to bare a row of teeth under the biscuit-coloured bristles and small hooked nose.
“Twelve dozen, Eric?”
“That’s it, isn’t it, Derrick?”
Colonel Pedlar sounded nervous now, already aware no doubt that he had ventured too far in claiming knowledge of the world; had made, not for the first time, an elementary blunder.
“Twelve dozen?” repeated Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
He added additional emphasis to the question, carrying the implication that he himself must have misheard.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wide of the mark, Eric. Completely out of the picture.”
“I am, Derrick?”
“You certainly are, Eric.”
“What is a pipe then, Derrick? I’m not in the wine trade.”
“Don’t have to be in the wine trade to know what a pipe of port is, old boy. Everyone ought to know that. Nothing to do with being a shopman. More than fifty dozen. That’s a pipe. You’re absolutely out in your calculations. Couldn’t be more so. Mismanaged your slide-rule. Landed in an altogether incorrect map-square. Committed a real bloomer. Got off on the wrong foot, as well as making a false start.”
“Is that a pipe, by Jove?”
“That’s a pipe, Eric.”
“I got it wrong, Derrick.”
“You certainly did, Eric. You certainly got it wrong. You did, by Jove.”
“You’ve shaken me, Derrick. I’ll have to do better next time.
“You will, Eric, you will — or we won’t know what to think of you.”
General Liddament seemed not to hear them. It was as if he had fallen into a cataleptic sleep or was under the influence of some potent drug. After this exchange between the two colonels, another long silence fell, one of those protracted abstinences from all conversation so characteristic of army Messes — British ones, at least — during which, as every moment passes, you feel someone is on the point of giving voice to a startling utterance, yet, for no particular reason, that utterance is always left pending, for ever choked back, incapable, from inner necessity, of being finally brought to birth. An old tin alarm-clock ticked away noisily on the dresser, emphasising the speedy passing of mortal life. Colonel Pedlar sipped away at his port, relish departed after his blunder. Cocksidge, with the side of his palm, very quietly scraped together several crumbs from the surface of the table cloth, depositing them humbly, though at the same time rather coyly, on his own empty plate, as if to give active expression, even in the sphere of food, to his perpetual dedication in keeping spick and span the surroundings of those set in authority over him, doing his poor best in making them as comfortable as possible. Only that morning, in the dim light at an early hour in the farmhouse kitchen, I had tripped over him, nearly fallen headlong, as he crouched on his knees before the fire, warming the butter ration so that its consistency might be appropriately emulsified for the General to slice with ease when he appeared at the breakfast table. No doubt, during all such silences as the one that now had fallen on the Mess, the mind of Cocksidge was perpetually afire with fresh projects for self-abasement before the powerful. By now there was no more to hope for, so far as food was concerned. It seemed time to withdraw from the board, in other respects unrewarding.